


Home

by Fogfire



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 11:21:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16448984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fogfire/pseuds/Fogfire
Summary: Song to listen to: Romantic flight  but the whole playlist is amazingLink: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r9TanR_3M0o&list=PLUi56N9RcnjDgywG4h-s4hj5iv9NcKpjq&index=2





	Home

At the end of a day, at the end of a mission, all he wants is to have a home.

He has a room in the tower, now that they call him a part of the Avengers. It’s more of an apartment than just a room, actually, but it’s his, with a door to lock and space to fill with things he could think of keeping.

And it’s nice. But home is where the heart is, as that cheesy card had said that he had once gotten from Natasha as a joke. And his heart is with you.

So it’s no surprise that he drives straight towards your apartment as soon as he’s back, even though it’s almost three in the morning and he hasn’t slept more than two hours at once for the last five days.

He’s asked you to stop hiding a second set of keys under the doormat - too easy to find. The moment the door softly clicks shut behind him he hears soft footsteps on the floor and the faint sound of purring.

“Hey there, Micky,” he crouches down, welcoming the three-legged cat you two had adopted a year ago. Micky rubs his face against Bucky’s leg, purring louder when he scratches the cat behind the ear it can’t reach itself with one leg missing.

“How’s Y/N?” Bucky asks the cat, “Still asleep I assume?”

Micky mews and Bucky gets up, following the pet into the kitchen where he stops in front of his empty bowl.

“Can’t have you hungry now, can we?” He whispers and fills up the bowl. Micky thanks him with another mew.

Now that he’s here, in the warm and cozy darkness of the apartment, he can feel the exhaustion kicking in. He puts his shoes next to the door and leaves his bag right there with them. He stops in the bathroom, pulling off his clothes and leaving them in the hamper, leaving only his boxers on.

In the dim light of a street lamp shining through he can see faint bruises where there had been serious wounds just a day earlier. It’s a good thing he heals so fast.

He doesn’t look in the mirror. Apparently, there’s a time for everything, but right now is not the time to stare at the dread hiding in the lines of his faces or the shadows that the exhaustion has cast, not when you’re right there in the next room.

You don’t wake when he slips into bed. The dipping of the mattress, the warmth of his body right next to yours, that rises nothing more but a soft sigh out of you.

He doesn’t want to wake you, but he longs to touch you, to make sure you’re still real. He pulls you closer with his right hand, careful that the cold metal of his left arm won’t touch and wake you.

Another sigh leaves your lips as you push your nose against his neck, every breath moving strands of his hair, tickling the sensitive skin.

You mumble something and he focuses, adamant on hearing every word.

“We have to call him James,” you mumble, “And Jim for short.”

He smiles and brushes his hand through your hair. This is home.

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At the beginning of a day, he longs to be with you. A good morning needs to have three things. Light and fresh air coming from the cracked windows, him following through with a routine that keeps him grounded and you. He can endure missing out on the first two as long as you are there with him.

This morning he gets all three of them.

He wakes from sunlight streaming in, the air smells fresh and new, telling him that the drizzle from the night has cleared. He hasn’t slept more than three hours, but he feels more refreshed than he has ever been on that mission.

He moves a bit, trying to get his left foot free from the heavy thing that’s lying on it.

Micky mews unhappily and gets up turns around three times and lies down next to Bucky foot.

When he turns to you, you’re already waking up, stretching and yawning and rubbing your eyes, smiling up at him.

“Hey,” you greet him with that slightly raw morning voice he loves, “When did you get home?”

“Three a.m.”

“And you didn’t wake me?” You pout and he smiles, leans down to kiss you.

“I tried, you didn’t wake up.”

“As if,” you hit his arm with your fist, “You’d never try to wake me unless it’s absolutely unavoidable. Now, get up, we get to go jogging.”

Bucky’s always known that he strives more for a calm live than an exaggerated one.

Sure, when he wanted to have more money than he could spend and the best-looking suits in his wardrobe, but a part of him always cherished the simplicity of a home. The value of friendship and the importance of having someone to turn to, to hold onto. And war and everything after that had only amplified these feelings.

He needed to get moving in the morning, right when his skin was crawling with pent-up energy, no matter how exhausted he had been when he fell asleep.

Having you to run with him made jogging a hundred times better.

“It’s Wednesday,” you remind him when you meet him at the door, clothed in your running gear, carrying your laundry bag. “You know what that means.”

He smiles and takes the laundry from you, carries it down the stairs and across the street to the laundromat.

You follow him closely, holding his hand when it’s practical or standing back to back with him when it’s not, but some part of you is always touching some part of his.

Set the time and run, smiling at each other every time you have to slow down, every time a cute dog passes them, every time there’s a sight worth sharing.

Take the laundry into the drier, set a time and move back into the apartment, using every minute to shower together, to kiss each other with at least one mouth filled with toothpaste and Bucky’s shaving cream getting all over your face.

He makes you breakfast and you make him coffee, slipping the cup into his hand when it’s done, and your hand into the pocket of his trousers, snuggling against his body, inhaling his scent as if you want to keep it in your nose for the rest of the day.

He walks you to work and gets the laundry on his way back.

That’s how every morning should be, could be, if it’s up to you and him.


End file.
